Roots
by coincidentally
Summary: Like leaves falling to their roots, all sons return to their mothers. Legolas is no exception.
1. Chapter 1

No one spoke of his mother.

Within those deep, cavernous halls carved from stone, the mere mention of the late queen would earn a few months stay in the dungeon. They said that despite his stolid façade, the King was still mourning the loss of his beloved, and had been grieving for the past two thousand years. Yet it seemed like an irony of the highest degree that there were no portraits, no memories, as if she had taken everything that existed in this world to an unmarked grave.

But that did not stop Legolas from wondering.

They were ghostly whispers now, tendrils of light and dark that flickered through his mind before dissipating into recesses of twilight. Though he could not conjure the exact image, he could still remember the feeling of her arms, warm through the heavy silk, cradling him on cold winter nights. Though he could not recall the precise tone, he could still remember the cadence of her words, revealing snippets of Old Doriath. And though he could not bring to mind her face, he could still remember the peculiar way the light danced from her features, accentuating her high cheekbones and radiant smile.

These fragments were all he had now, shards from a long-gone past that became dimmer with each passing autumn, like pebbles being smoothed by the currents of the river. Time devoured all, and his memories were no exception.

Over the course of two thousand years, Legolas had spun many fanciful musings about his missing mother. Each flitting thought contributed to an image that gradually made itself apparent and firmly rooted in his mind. Reality gave way to fantasy, and the already murky distinction blurred until he was no longer able to discern between the two. But perhaps it was best that way, for it was better to grow up with a fleeting figure that dwelled in sunlit glades than to face the cold, harsh, void of reality.

He imagined her with flaxen hair of gleaming gold like the wheat during autumn harvests, with eyes not unlike his own, a shade so blue that reflected the summer sky (not that steely blue of his father that was quick to slash and dissect and eviscerate), with a gentle smile that mollified irate hearts, and with a gaze so full of love for her kingdom, her people, her husband, and her son.

Like Eru Illuvatar fashioning the Firstborn, Legolas instilled every virtue he could think of into this fantastical creature, and it was this notion he carried with him in all that he did.

When he finally met his mother, these quixotic perceptions were effectively destroyed.

…

With a father like his, Legolas quickly learned that some things were better left unsaid. Thranduil was not a poor father by any means, and on the rare chance the Elvenking had a reprieve from his duties, he would take his son hunting in the forests of Greenwood the Great. It was he who oversaw his son's education, teaching him the ways of the warrior and the prince. And the Elvenking had succeeded, and Legolas was the proof of his toils.

Yet deep in his heart lingered memories of sorrow and bereavement, of the loss of his father at Dagorlad, of his people slaughtered by the forces of evil, and of the loss of his—and Greenwood's—queen. Only Galion, his faithful friend who had attended him all these years, could even begin to fathom the depth of his pains, but in the end, Thranduil was alone on a road that led to nowhere.

He tried to show his son his affection, but how was that possible when he could barely look at him because his son reminded him so much of _her_? Though his son had inherited his coloring of blonde and blue, he had his mother's spirit, and when the light slanted at a certain angle, every little gesture, be it a turning of the head or a narrowing of the eyes, contained so many memories (Doriath, Lindon, Amon Lanc, the places were all beginning to blur) that for a fleeting moment, Thranduil imagined that his queen was standing in front of him.

And when the moment of folly had lapsed, his vision would clear, and he would be left with seeing his son, the only physical memento she has left him.

…

Legolas, when he had not yet reached the ripe mark of fifty years, had asked, in a fit of youthful foolishness, his father the whereabouts of his mother. He had returned from a day's work in the archery ranges, and he had seen the mothers of his companions run up to them and fuss over their appearance and their array of cuts and bruises. A bitter feeling welled up in his throat when he realized that there was no one there to tend to him, and he had walked back to the palace in silence and jealousy. Call it the burden of the aristocracy; Legolas, for possibly the first time in his short life, had lacked something which _everyone_ else had. This sense of bereavement did not sit well with the young marksman.

Rapping the door to his father's study with three brisk strokes, he entered after hearing his father's beckoning. The room was dimly lit by a burnished brazier in the corner, and a faint aroma of dried ink lingered in the air. Unlike the throne room, the study had a low ceiling that provided for a cozy workspace. Stacks of parchment sat on one side of the desk, and a bookcase filled with tomes of lore rose along the back wall. Though the Sindars were reputed to be less wise than their Noldorin cousins, they were by no means uncouth ruffians.

Legolas stood still for a time, watching his father compose a document. The King placed his quill down, reached for the stamp, and pressed it to the parchment, and set it aside. He then reached for the next sheaf on the pile. He skimmed it quickly, and began to write.

"Yes, Legolas?" came the smooth baritone. Legolas knew that his father was not hard on the eyes, even by elven standards, if the titters of the court ladies were any indication. He himself was beginning to garner the same reaction from the younger ladies, and though he could not say he didn't enjoy their attentions, he had to admit that their reactions were irritating sometimes.

Before his mind could filter his thoughts and debate the prudence of his actions, he blurted, "Father, who is my mother?"

The quiet scribbling of the quill nib stopped abruptly, and dark ink pooled on the parchment. The Elvenking did not move for a long time, and all was still except for the flickering of the flames that cast long shadows across the room and his face.

Then, slowly, the King raised his head, his features hollow and gaunt. If even possible for elven beauty, his features had a sickly sallowness that betrayed his eternal youth and revealed the King's age. The regal façade his father presented to the council and his advisors was fractured, and there was a tender vulnerability that laid beneath the bolts of silk and titles— the anguish of not a king, but of a heartbroken elf.

His father's eyes, the silvery blue that was usually so keen, were clouded with the sorrow for his departed wife. The gaze that usually grounded Legolas was now gone, and in its stead was a glassy surface brimming with fine cracks that threatened to consume his father inside out. There was a sense of vertigo humming in the air, a jarring disconnect from reality.

If elves were blessed with strong bodies, then they have received emotions of surprising fragility. They felt everything so deeply, on a level so profound that it was impossible for mortals to comprehend. And this is the price they have paid for their immortality and beauty. Men, so afraid of death, the Gift of Illuvator, often envied the elves for their immortality, but for Thranduil, living until the end of the world was not a boon, but rather, a bane.

The Elvenking did not speak, offering no explanation, and his eyes were transfixed on a distant point—perhaps he was imagining the white sands of the West and the cries of the gulls. Legolas, feeling out of place and guilty for bringing his father such palpable pain, slipped quietly from the room and closed the door behind him. His father made no acknowledgement of his departure.

From that point on, Legolas knew not to bring up matters of the queen with his father.

And silence began its reign.

…

Even if no one spoke of it, the matter still had a way of escaping, seeping through the crevices of his father's halls and amplifying the whispers through those resounding chambers until the torrent of noises threatened to overwhelm him.

Once, in a briefing with his father and the captain of the guard regarding the looming evil that overhung Mirkwood, the captain mentioned a possible attack from Gundabad, a strategic stronghold of the once infamous kingdom of Angmar.

For the briefest of seconds, pain—a deep, fathomless torture—laced through his father's eyes before quickly evaporating like dew in the morning sun. Icy stolidity once again took its place, filling in the cracks of the King's façade.

"I apologize, my lord," the captain lowered his eyes and placed his right hand on his breast. "It was callous of me to mention that fell place."

"You are dismissed," came the flat voice of the Elvenking. But underneath the indifference, an uneasy tension broiled, threatening to tear apart the King's veneer piece by heartbreaking piece. His father, Legolas realized, was more fragile than most perceived.

The King was rational in affairs concerning the state, and the strain in his voice betrayed the fact that Gundabad was more than a military threat. Perhaps it held a point of personal tragedy to his father…

The candle was burning to the end of its wick as Legolas flipped through another volume of the annals. So far, in the last fifteen hundred years, there was little activity of the orc citadel in relation to Mirkwood. There were only cursory mentions of the place, and they were of little significance.

Then, his eyes stilled at a passage dating to a few years after his birth, titled "The Siege of Gundabad and the Death of the Woodland Queen"

 _When the King returned from a successful trade negotiation with Dale and Erebor, he found a patrol of guards, all massacred in the bloodiest manner possible, save for one. The ellon was gasping for breath, the light already fading from his eyes, and with his last words he told the King that the Orcs claimed that they had taken the Queen as prisoner to Gundabad. The King, finding that the queen indeed was missing, set out with a host of his best warriors and marched on Gundabad. When they had arrived, he demanded that the orcs release the Woodland Queen, lest they brought war upon themselves. The orcs sneered and spat in their faces. They gleefully told the King of the various types of torture they inflicted upon his wife, just to see his spirit crumble. But he stood firm, a brilliant fire flared in his eyes, not to be quenched by the vile mocking of those despicable creatures._

 _The Siege of Gundabad lasted for many months. The King's troops were weary and depleted, but continued to persevere. Yet, the King's valor and courage were in vain because the orcs had finally broke him. On a gray morning, they stood her on the parapet, and she was bloodied and mutilated beyond recognition. The orc leader called out to our King that "he could have her." He doused the Queen in pitch tar, set her ablaze, and flung her from the rampart. She screamed in agony during the entire descent before the flames consumed her and reduced her to dust. No body ever hit the ground, and all that remained were ashes that slowly drifted through the air. The King, with a heavy heart, returned to his realm, his back turned to the jeering of the Gundabad orc. He suffered a bitter defeat that day, the day when the Last Elvenqueen and his only love departed from the shores of Arda._

Legolas set down the tome, his fingers trembling. So this was why the briefest mention of the queen pained his father. Such an event must have been deeply distressing, and the fact that his father did not fade was a testament to his strength. But the pain still lingered, clawing its way deeper and deeper into his heart until one day he could no longer bear it and left for the Western Shores.

The prince touched his cheeks and found them wet. How long was it since he had last shed tears? A hundred years? Five hundred? A thousand? The full force of never meeting his mother hit him, blunt and disorienting, and he found himself unable to stem the flow of the salty liquid from his eyes.

How agonizing it must have been to spend her last days in delirium and pain—cruel, sadistic pain—and to die in such a manner was incomprehensible to the elven mind.

But at least, as he turned his eyes to the stars that he knew were there, he could at least take comfort in that she found peace and solace under a different sky.

Unknown to him, across the banks of the Anduin, an elleth sat in the middle of her garden and gazed at the glittering fabric above, the silvery sheen of starlight dancing in the depths of those ancient eyes.

* * *

Welcome to _Roots_ , an explication on the fate of Legolas's mother, the Queen of the Woodland Realm. The plotline of this story fits into the larger development I have for the Elvenqueen (which I might write someday), but the groundwork laid out in this story should be sufficient to make this a standalone piece. Expect minor deviations from cannon, though I have done the best I could to adhere to Tolkien's works.

Reviews and follows are appreciated!


	2. Chapter 2

The scent of lavender was all she knew.

The pungent, heady fragrance that curled from those delicate blossoms was an opiate, suspending her in a surreal trance and washing away the remnants of another life. Her once sharp mind was dulled into a drunken stupor, fixed in a state of narcotic indifference. The passing of the seasons no longer imprinted itself on her mind, and the progression of time stretched, flowing like molasses, until each moment felt like an eternity. So this was the feeling of living until the end of time! Forever unchanging, forever uncaring. . .

The elleth started from her reverie when she heard approaching footsteps. This was not unusual, for elves traveling to and from Lorien often found lodging in her home. They were traders, sailing up and down the Anduin to Gondor and Rohan to sell their elven wares in exchange for the goods of men. These elves were simple Silvan folks, a rustic people whom she had tried to defend so long ago.

She was met with the honest face of a wood elf as she emerged from the side gate. Wide, slate gray eyes set greeted her before a voice, tinged with the Silvan dialect, spoke.

"Good evening. May I rest here for the night?"

She nodded and placed her hand over her heart in a gesture of welcome.

As they walked past the bushes of pale, purple blooms, the visitor commented, "You have a nice garden, my lady."

The corner of her mouth curved upwards.

"I'm sure it pales in comparison to the beauty of the Golden Wood."

"But those forests are enchanted by the Lady of Light herself."

She turned and gazed at him, piercing him with green eyes filled with inexplicable sorrow. In the dying wisps of sunlight, a quiet melancholy hung in the air, and resignation lingered in the shadows of the coming dusk.

"I suppose you're right." She disappeared into her home, and the cool darkness beckoned the traveler to enter.

After lighting a few candles, she set down a plate of breads and cheeses in front of her guest.

"I hope you don't mind the simple fare."

"It's fine. Nothing that I'm not used to."

As the elf ate, she took a seat near the window, her gaze fixed on the waning daylight. The onset of evening again revealed a crumbling of her form, a lethargy that gnawed at her soul and made her apathetic to the ebb and flow of the world. She, the trader thought, was older than she appeared to be, and her weariness of the world paralleled that of elves departing for the Gray Havens.

He took a bite of the bread and another swig of tea (she had informed him that she kept no wine in the house) before asking with tender hesitancy.

"My lady, if you do not mind me asking, why do you keep no company?"

She looked at him, flickers of candlelight dancing in her eyes, before she smiled in the manner of a parent indulging a child.

"None desire it."

His fine features tensed, and his eyebrows furrowed in incomprehension.

"Surely you must have family who would be willing."

Her eyes misted in recollection, darting through a forest of memories, past the Third Age, the Second Age, all the way to the City of One Thousand Caves.

"They sailed West many years ago."

"And you did not follow? If your kin is in the Undying Lands, what compels you to remain here?"

"I. . .do not know." But that was a lie, for she knew exactly why she was forbidden to ever set foot on those hallowed vessels crafted by her Telerin ancestors; she was sentenced to remain in Arda until the sun burned out and the stars themselves were reduced to dust.

A brief silence washed over them before the traveler spoke.

"You. . .don't appear Silvan, my lady,"

"No, I am not," she agreed. Another lapse of silence wavered before she stood, the feet of the chair softly scraping against the wooden floor.

"The bedroom is on the right. Good night."

She disappeared through the back door, her umber hair melting into the inky night.

Alone again, she settled among the blooming lavender and drew her knees together so that her arms rested on them. The stars, kindled by Varda herself, offered no sympathy for her plight. The cold, silver light remained and would remain suspended in the heavens until the arrival of eternity.

Though it had already been two thousand years, the pain of leaving everything she had known and cherished behind was still fresh and raw in her heart. There was nothing, not even the constant passing of time, that could dull the throbbing dolor plaguing her mind. Such grief had caused lesser elves to fade, but she persisted, if nothing but for the sake of pride. To willingly relinquish her will to live and arrive at the Halls of Mandos was tantamount to conceding to those who had advocated for her exile. Thus, she continued to live and bore her banishment with quiet dignity.

She found meaning in this empty existence.

Besides, if she had survived the sacking and subsequent destruction of her home when so many had not, then she could endure this for many more years to come,

But, she mused, what she wouldn't give to see them again! If only for a moment, she would trade her entire existence to see her love again. Even though war had changed him from a youth to a king, he still had the same expressive eyes that enchanted her when they first met at the court of Elu Thingol.

And her son. A bitter feeling welled up in her throat. Even his name was a political ploy. They named him Legolas, formed from an archaic Silvan stem to appease their people.

How cruel the years must have been to him! To have never been there when he needed her, to have never attended his initiation as a warrior, to have never been there for his begetting days were the greatest regrets of her long life. Nothing could be said or done to reverse the current course of actions, but if, _if_ things had been different, she would have forsaken her position as queen and would have placed her son before the kingdom. She now knew what an empty title the queen was, devoid of the warmth and love that accompanied motherhood.

She could have at least had her son, if she had not been so adamant, but in the end, she had lost him as well. She had insisted on gambling her happiness—their happiness—for vague, long term goals. She had sacrificed everything in the name of political propriety.

She could still remember her son, with hair and eyes of his father's and a ready smile on his lips. Did he still retain that carefree innocence after all these years? Or would strife and sorrow wrench that from him as they did with his father? Did he have the sea longing as with all her kin? Did he despise her for her absence from his life?

She would never know the answers, and the pain of not knowing cut more deeply than any elven blade forged by the Gondolin masters of old.

That was the true pain of her punishment.

But, as she gazed at the glittering expanse above, she took comfort in the knowledge that her son was alive and well, across the mighty waters of the Anduin, present yet unreachable.

* * *

Not much action in this chapter, but hopefully it lends a better look into the (still) unnamed queen and drops a few hints of her past and the situation underlying her exile.

Reviews, faves, and follows are appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3

She thought this estrangement would endure forever, as constant as the perpetual alteration between day and night. But no power, not even fate, much less the will of the Eldar, could separate a mother from her child.

The love of a mother is an odd thing. Deep, profound, and unyielding, it seeps into the soul, nourishing growth and shaping perceptions. Yet this love is dangerous, for its absence creates a longing and emptiness that many have attempted to fill with less honorable acts.

It was this peculiar mixture of chance and destiny that lead to the rediscovery of mother and son and the rekindling of an unbreakable bond.

But such bonds develop gradually, initially sparks dancing between tinder, slowly diminishing the foliage before growing into an all-consuming fire. When the queen met the prince in the little hut by the Anduin, no hugs were exchanged, no tears were shed, and certainly no professions of unconditional love were made.

As with all things, the first meeting began innocuously.

. . .

"Sire, the area is clear," Lagoron, the captain, reported. Turning his head to quickly survey his surroundings, he added uneasily, "Though the previous patrol reported this section was festering with spiders."

"Strange, isn't it?" Legolas murmured. "As of late, the spider population has been growing in number, and I fear the source of this evil."

He fixed his eyes on the captain. "Instruct everyone to be on high alert and have weapons ready at hand."

"Yes, your majesty," he bowed and relayed the order, a stream of Sindarin and the Woodland tongue flowing through the still air.

The southernmost portion of the forests were the most affected as Legolas noted its sickly pallor. He was told that before the darkness had taken over, the forest was brimming with vitality, that giant oaks and beeches soared to the sky, forming a vibrant canopy through which dapple sunlight shone, and that the woods was aptly named Greenwood the Great.

His heart sunk in dismay as he saw the fallen trees, their trunks black with blight, the haunting silence devoid of birdsong, and the ghostly luminescence of fungus sprouting from the forest ground. The image before him reeked of death and decay, a stark contrast to its previous beauty and an undeniable testament to the decadence of his home.

He had never laid his eyes upon Amon Lanc, the hill upon which his grandsire had raised his magnificent capital to serve as the emblem of Silvan-Sindarin power. To travel to that part in the southwest corner of his father's kingdom was strictly forbidden. The trees screamed of a darkness, an indiscernible darkness, and whispers of a Necromancer passed through leafless limbs. The tension lingered in the air, thick and stifling. Something sinister lurked in the shadows, and his father was all too willing to turn his back and close his iron-wrought gates. But they knew, deep in their hearts, that this ill-bought illusion of peace would not last, and the increasing spider attacks were only warnings of the imminent war.

He had heard, when no one thought he was listening, that the deterioration of the forest occurred around the same time as the death of the queen. The departure of the queen (his mother, he added absently) and the wilting of the forest coincided in sickening tandem to produce a macabre symbolism. The forest had been wrenched of its restoring light, and now it was inevitably headed towards death and destruction.

Legolas stopped. Nothing good would result from continuing this train of thought, and having discovered the plight of the Woodland Queen, he felt repulsed by the mere thought of the late queen. Dying as flames engorged her flesh…falling, falling, falling towards the nothingness of death. . .

A shrill scream pierced the noiseless air, and he spun around to see a spider sinking its fangs into the shoulder of a guard who fell limp as the poison coursed through his body.

"On the ground!" he shouted, signaling for the elves, who had largely occupied the tree branches, to drop to the forest floor. Though elves were known for their dexterity and the formation would allow the spiders to pounce on them, remaining on the ground would prevent entanglement in the webs, which were near transparent in the dim light.

The quiet air came alive, filled with the hissing and clicking of arachnids as their beady eyes peered at the elves below brandishing their weapons.

Legolas eyed each of his warriors, and murmured with the calm that accompanied years of service. "Leave none alive. Aim for the soft underbelly, the junction between the head and the body, and the eyes. On my count. Three," Muscles bunched to allow for an explosive recoil in the imminent fight.

"Two," Metallic glints flashed in the eerie light.

"One," Pincers clicked in eager anticipation of the coming meal.

"Move!"

Massive bodies hit the ground, sending reverberations through the ground. Spindly legs flexed and stretched as the creatures loomed towards their prey. The spiders had pounced, as he had predicted, and the melee ground skirmish would compromise the use of a bow to only the most skilled of archers, but Legolas would take this. The situation could be a lot worse.

Ducking a swipe that would have taken off his head, Legolas vaulted on to the back of the creature, thrust his knife into the chink between the head and the abdomen, and leapt off, nimbly landing on his feet. The hideous creature gave a shudder, its legs clawing at the soft earth before becoming still. Its body settled on the loamy ground with a slump.

Roll, slash, feint. Turn, duck, stab. Legolas's mind issued command after command that prioritized elimination of the enemy and economy of action. And so he cut through the battle, wielding his Silvan blades in a manner that some had observed to be not dissimilar to the style that originated in Doriath, one that focused on elegant ruthlessness.

Out of the corner of his eye, Legolas noticed that his captain was being cornered by two spiders. Although Lagoron was fighting valiantly, he was hard-pressed and was quickly losing ground. There was no time for the captain to climb a tree, for that would expose his back, and the creatures were trapping him between the gnarled roots of an ancient beech, a tricky situation that provided few escapes.

Legolas sprinted towards his subordinate, rolled under the spider's body, and sliced open the creature's underside. As he emerged under the spider, he felt the sleeve of his tunic rip and a sharp pain in his upper arm. The spider must have bit him, he realized after a short delay. He could already feel the delirium and the lightheadedness induced by the poison.

As the spider toppled, its companion paused for a moment in confusion, and this gave his captain the opportunity to stab the eyes of the remaining spider which quickly fell dead.

As the fighting ceased, the elves began to pile the carcasses and take a survey of the wounded.

Scrapes and bruises were plenty, but the most pressing casualties were Legolas and Amathon, the guard whom the spiders initially attacked.

"We need to purge the poison quickly," Lagoron spoke in low tones filled with urgency. "The poison has been increasing in potency, and from the looks of it," he gestured to the prince and the guard both of whom had stiffened save for the occasional muscle spasm, "they have until sundown before they're gone."

Shock rippled through the patrol.

"But it's afternoon already! And the King's halls are a day's ride away!"

"Which is exactly why we need hurry if we want to save them. The poison is not difficult to remove, but it requires a certain mixture of herbs, some of which do not readily grow in this forest. Time is of the essence." Lagoron replied with steely resolve.

"There is enough time to bring them both to Lorien. Surely they would be able to help us?" One guard suggested.

The captain spoke after a moment of pause. "Lorien is a considerable distance, and carrying the wounded would greatly reduce our speed. It is highly unlikely that we will be able to arrive before sunset."

Quiet despair accompanied the silence. The Prince was well beloved by his people, and to lose him this way seemed all too cruel. If he were fated to die, he should die in the hot-blooded glory of battle, not to the poison that quietly seized his body.

"There…might be a way to save him." All eyes focused on Gilion, the youngest member of the patrol. "My cousin who lives in Lorien once mentioned an elleth who lives on the banks of the Anduin, where the North Undeep flows into the South Undeep. She offers food and lodging to the traders, and in exchange for her hospitality, she receives a portion of the goods. She might be able to help us."

"And exactly how do we know when we have reached our destination?" Lagoron questioned with narrowed eyes.

"Since she houses those who travel by raft, her dwelling should be directly visible from both banks. The water there meanders at the bend and is shallow enough to cross by foot. We're in the southernmost eaves of the forest, so if we follow the river downstream, we should arrive before nightfall."

"Very well," the captain sighed. "I suppose this is a gamble we must take." He eyed the soldiers. "We need to fix stretchers to carry the wounded. Gilion, you will accompany me, and I need two others to support the stretchers." Two guards stepped forward.

"Good. The rest of you, depart for the King's halls with haste and inform him of the events that have transpired. Maethon, you're in charge." The dark haired ellon nodded and with his company, departed in the direction of the halls.

Lagoron eyed his three companions. "Take off your tunics and tie them to form stretchers, one for each of the wounded, and haul them on to the stretchers. Gilion, you take the front since you have the most knowledge of our destination."

The warriors went over to pick up the prince and the guard, and they noted with trepidation that the eyes had glazed over, not in the manner of sleep, but that of impending death. The bodies were hard and stiff, and the skin had paled beyond what was considered normal as large splotches of plum appeared underneath the eyes, in the cheeks, and on the extremities. If it weren't for the faint, rasping gasps of breath, they could certainly be declared as dead.

Lagoron took a deep breath, and muttered, "For the love of all that is sacred, I hope this works."

Then the elves took off, and the only signs of their presence were the giant carcasses littering the forest floor.

. . .

It was nearly dusk when they arrived.

Golden strands of sunlight filtered into that cottage by the Great River, casting everything in rich, warm tones. The warriors, when they had caught sight of the modest abode, dashed across the river in a mad frenzy, hardly noticing or caring that they were now soaked up to their knees.

Lagoron, having set the stretcher down, pounded on the door, trembling with anticipation and dread. It was too late to head for Lorien, and if no one answered, then two more names would be added to the list of the dead.

Seconds ticked by in chilling silence, and with each passing moment, the captain felt his heart sink in despair. They should have made for Lorien, at least they would still have a chance! He had failed his duty to his prince, his king, and ultimately, his people. . .

The wooden door creaked open, and a face that Lagoron thought he would never see again appeared. Striking green eyes set in a delicate face peered at him, and a small amount of surprise entered them when they registered the braids woven in his coppery locks. His mind was failing to understand the sight before him, a sight that once held beauty and power, one that belonged to a Sinda princess who long ago had walked among his kin when the woods were still green.

Recovering from his initial shock, he dropped into a bow, murmuring "My lady." He could feel the questioning glances of his companions, all of whom were less than two thousand years in age, but the time for explanations was not now.

As he straightened, he noticed that the elleth was staring past his shoulder at the unconscious elf on the stretcher. She did not move, her eyes widening in shock, and her mouth soundlessly moved.

"Come in," she said at last in a bated whisper, her eyes never leaving the prince.

* * *

Apologies for the long wait! There you have it, the first meeting, to be continued in the next chapter. And before anyone freaks out at the reference about the Sinda princess, let's just say that it's not entirely accurate and she is in no way a descendant of Luthien.

Please review and enjoy!


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